All eyes in the cold, grey room shifted to Baroness Augusta. The silence was heavy, broken only by the low hum of the overhead lights. Fredrick’s accusation, "She told to do it," hung in the air like smoke.
For a long mont, Augusta was completely still, her face a pale, frozen mask. Then, a sharp, angry breath escaped her lips. For the first ti since she had arrived at the headquarters of the Criminal and Justice Division, she spoke. Her voice was high and strained, like a wire pulled too tight.
"Are you out of your mind?" she snapped, her eyes blazing with fury as she stared at Fredrick. "So now you are going to put this on ? After everything?"
Fredrick laughed, a dry, rattling sound. The fear had left him, replaced by a bitter resolve. "Everything? You an after you let rot in a prison for twenty years for a cri you planned? How we t after my release? How we t in that quiet little place you took to?" He took a step toward the table, leaning on it with his hands. "You told I had failed once. You said this was my chance to make it right. You told to kill Delia, and to do it properly this ti."
Augusta’s face twisted in disgust. "It is a lie! A complete lie!" she declared, looking at Inspector Wimbly with pleading eyes. "He is a desperate man trying to save himself. He is trying to fra !"
"There’s another cri the Baroness committed," a calm voice said from the doorway.
Everyone turned. Prescott stood there, his expression serious and unreadable. He walked slowly into the room, his presence imdiately changing the atmosphere. He held a large, leather-bound ledger in his hands.
He continued, his voice steady and clear, cutting through the tension. "She used the fact that Mr. Smith, Mr. Adair Reed’s assistant, was already addicted to opium—an addiction she herself caused—to imprison him. She used him to produce Mr. Adair Reed’s signature fabrics."
A low murmur went through the room. Delia and Eric looked at Prescott, confused but completely focused on his words.
"She faked his death," Prescott went on, his eyes never leaving Augusta. "Mr. Reed was the only one who died at sea that day. That was why his body was found. People just assud Mr. Smith was with him. But the Baroness used Baron Henry’s influence and na to invite Mr. Smith over for a private project. After that eting, he was never seen again."
Augusta stared at Prescott, her eyes narrowing into a look of pure hatred. It was a murder stare, cold and sharp.
Prescott was unmoved. "When the news of Mr. Reed’s death spread through the kingdom, she used it to her advantage. She had his assistant, the only other person who knew the secret weaving techniques, replicate the fabrics for her. She called them Adair Reed’s ’unreleased fabrics’ to raise their value. Who wouldn’t want to buy one of the last creations of a dead genius?" He paused, letting the weight of his accusation sink in. "She must have earned thousands of gold from it. All while keeping an innocent man intoxicated and delusional, offering him opium as a reward for his work."
Augusta finally found her voice again. It dripped with arrogance. "Mr. Prescott," she hissed, "who do you think you are to make such wild accusations?"
Prescott’s calm expression finally broke, replaced by a deep, long-held pain. He looked directly at her, and for the first ti, she saw sothing other than seriousness in his eyes.
"I am... I am Prescott Smith," he said, his voice clear and strong. "Mr. Smith’s son!"
A collective gasp filled the room. Delia’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. Eric stared, his mind visibly trying to connect the dots of this incredible story. Fredrick looked on with a kind of grim satisfaction, while Wimbly simply watched, his face impassive.
Augusta’s arrogant sneer faltered. A small, confused chuckle escaped her lips, which then grew into a full, disbelieving laugh. The sound was hollow and strange in the room. "Smith’s son?" she repeated, shaking her head. Then, the laughter died, and a look of cold realization washed over her face. Her eyes widened as she truly looked at him, at the man who had been by her side for years.
"So you knew," she whispered, the words filled with a dawning horror. "All this while. S-so you were by my side all these years just to get revenge." Her voice cracked with a sudden, genuine sadness. "You ca to when you were just a fifteen-year-old lad. An orphan looking for work. I trusted you... and you betrayed ."
Prescott’s face was like stone. He ignored her words, her attempt to seem like the victim. He walked past her to Inspector Wimbly’s desk and placed the heavy ledger on it with a solid thud.
"I have proof," Prescott said, his voice firm again. "Proof of the secret bank accounts she established under a man’s na to hide the money from the forgeries. I spent twenty years of my life compiling this ledger, tracking every transaction." He looked at Wimbly. "The proof that she made my father addicted to opium, and how she was responsible for his capture and imprisonnt, will be turned in to you later today. I have witnesses who are finally ready to speak."
Inspector Wimbly picked up the ledger and opened it. He scanned a few pages, his expression unchanging, but a small, satisfied smile touched the corners of his lips as he looked up at Augusta.
"Your charges keep piling up, Baroness," he said, his tone devoid of any sympathy. "Attempted murder, kidnapping, fraud, forced labor... Looks like you will have to get used to Newcastle Prison, because it will be your new ho. Forever."
The word ’forever’ hits Augusta like a rock. The last bit of color drained from her face. Fear, raw and overpowering, finally gripped her. The arrogant Baroness disappeared, replaced by a desperate, trapped woman.
She spoke hurriedly, her words tumbling over each other. "Let send word to my husband... no... my daughter. Let write her a letter. Anne. She’s involved with the Carson’s. Yes she’s with His Grace, Duke Philip. If she finds out I’m here, she won’t sit still. She will help !"
Prescott looked at her with pity. "How did you think you were caught at the tea shop, Baroness?"
Augusta stared at him, confused. "What?"
It was Delia who answered. She leaned forward slightly, her voice low and cold. "Don’t you get it? Your daughter was the one who told us where you would be." She gave a small, humorless smirk. "Nobody is on your side."
The final betrayal was too much for Augusta to bear. All her control, all her composure, shattered into a million pieces. A wild, primal rage filled her eyes. She stood up so violently that her chair crashed to the floor behind her.
"DELIA!" she scread, her voice a raw, painful sound. "You must have threatened her. My Anne cannot do this. You...YOU!"
She lunged across the table, her hands outstretched like claws, aiming for Delia’s face. But as if sensing what would happen, Eric moved in a single, smooth motion. He was on his feet in an instant, positioning himself directly in front of Delia, shielding her completely with his body. Augusta’s attack was blocked by his firm stance.
"Hold her down!" Wimbly commanded, his voice booming through the room.
Two officers imdiately grabbed Augusta’s arms, but she fought with surprising strength, thrashing and kicking. "LET GO!" she shrieked, her hair falling into her face, her carefully constructed image of grace and power completely destroyed. "LET GO!"
Wimbly watched her struggle for a mont before giving his final orders. "Tie her up. Prepare for their departure for Newcastle Prison imdiately. Both of them." He glanced towards Fredrick, who was watching the scene with wide, stunned eyes. "Secure all the evidence to take with you, especially that ledger. And make sure to keep an eye on them, especially this one." He looked directly at the struggling Augusta. "She’s slippery."
"Yes, sir," the officers replied in unison. They efficiently restrained Augusta, her screams slowly turning into defeated sobs as the reality of her situation finally, completely, crushed her.
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